


Maybe a dream

by TerresDeBrume



Series: Flash Fic Night Prompts [44]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Post Balcony Bonfire, Post-Canon, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 13:04:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13571145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerresDeBrume/pseuds/TerresDeBrume
Summary: It’s still too soon to tell who, between Cowboy and Napoleon, is the real one.





	Maybe a dream

**Author's Note:**

> Phew! Illya was actually pretty tricky to write in this one, I have yet to find a balance between his emotional openness and the mind games necessary when being a spy...I mean, he seems like he'd be a very straightforward person by nature but being stuck in the spying world (and with people like Napoleon as colleagues, no less!) he'd have to learn to play things closer to his chest. Ish.
> 
> Oh well. Hope you enjoy my little training session ;)

Illya turns back around after too long, only to find Gaby still staring at the spot where Waverly disappeared. It almost looks like she’s still trying to figure out what just happened, and maybe she is. Most likely, she is. Somewhere at the back of Illya’s mind, a voice whispers ‘ _maybe she isn’t_ ’, but that voice sounds red and feels like marching feet on the street, and Illya knows better than to follow it. It’s better to wait and see, watch the board before he makes his move. If he didn’t, he’d never realize the knight is missing.

 

“Where’s Cowboy?”

 

Chop Shop—not Gaby, Gaby is a dangerous word—spins around, head tilting behind her giant sunglasses. It takes her too long to shrug, and her eyes move away from Illya’s afterward, but he doesn’t let it stop him. There is a mess to sort out, there, a precipice all the more dangerous for how delicious the fall looks. Chop Shop is Waverly’s, though, in a way Illya and Cowboy aren’t. If she doesn’t learn to figure him out on her own fast, she never will. Illya steps back into the suite, and doesn’t let the weight of his partner’s eyes stop him.

Thick emptiness greets Illya in the salon, suitcases staring at him from the open bedroom, until he turns and finds the bathroom door closed. He strides there on silent feet, mindful of the window opening on the balcony, and frowns when the handle offers no resistance.

 

Cowboy doesn’t slouch on the hotel’s wooden chair, exactly, but it’s the closest Illya has ever seen on him. The costume doesn’t look so sharp from that angle, the creases of it folding under the weight of humanity, and when Illya asks about Cowboy’s hands, he gets raised brows rather than a polished smile.

 

“Well, I won’t have to worry about my fingerprints for a while.”

 

Illya, at a loss for anything better to do, nods. He would say more, wants to say more, despite every inch of logic telling him not to but words, as is often the case, elude him. How do you let someone know they’re not being as good an actor as they think they are without being offensive? Cowboy and he may have a tentative friendship, here, but every passing second takes them further past its expiry date, and Illya was never prepared for that.

In the end, it’s easier to fall back on well-traveled paths.

 

“Let’s hope it helps your thieving skills.”

 

Cowboy’s lips lift up at the corner, gone in a flash, and Illya is still trying to determine if it’s real when Gab—when _Chop Shop_ appears at the door.

 

“Fun in the men’s room again?”

 

She’s leaning against the threshold with her arms on her chest, and Illya feels his hands fall to his side in response, as if his arms had forgotten he’s not a child anymore. This is dangerous, too, but too fast to catch before it happens, and Illya is in the middle of rearranging his posture when Cowboy says:

 

“I just assumed Peril wanted to pay his respect to the room.”

 

When Illya turns to glare at the man, the almost-slouch is gone, replaced with the distinct air of someone who knows they own the room, grating arrogance barely concealed under the sweetness of a Cowboy’s grin. The man rises to his feet, costume back into impeccable form, and walks to the bedroom with enough confidence to make even Illya wonder if, maybe, he didn’t dream the vulnerability.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and critiques make me want to keep writing! :D


End file.
